


The Armourer and the Knight

by AngeNoir



Series: Inktober 2017 [1]
Category: Avengers Academy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Drabble, Gen, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:25:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: Anthony Stark the III is tired of having people ask him to return to his work as the Ripper. He wants nothing to do with weapons. His creations no longer will be used to harm others.Andno oneis going to force him otherwise.Inktober Drabble 1 = Universe: Avengers Academy / List: Steampunk / Prompt: The Ripper





	The Armourer and the Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for inktober, based on the prompt "The Ripper" from a Steampunk list. (You can see [and prompt me!] my initial post about my inktober writings [here](http://outercorner.tumblr.com/post/165938959460/so-i-am-gonna-be-trying-this-inktober-thing-but).)
> 
> (Not actually about Jack the Ripper, mostly because I’m not great at crime and crime fiction, so we’ll see where this goes.)
> 
> This looks really short compared to the amount of research I put into this story. x.x
> 
> Time spent: 3.5 hours

“Eventually, you will have to bestir yourself. You cannot shut yourself in and expect the world will let you step out of time.”

Anthony Stark the III did not even look up to grace the younger Odinson with his attention. Instead, he focused even more intently on the wires he was curling and wrapping around the delicate circuitry. He was very good at ignoring people, as the town’s Chamberlain could attest to; Virginia Potts constantly called upon his workshop here on the edge of the town to berate him for this odd smell or that odd explosion. He suspected she did not truly mind; the bailiff of their town, Nicholas Fury, was the true power and authority in their town, and as Madam Potts’ direct supervisor, the one who sent her to harass Anthony at his place of work, the Inventor’s Workshop. Whenever Madam Potts’ darkened the doorstep, the two other inventors that shared this space pointed into the depths of the shop to where Anthony resided.

Anthony Stark and Lunella Lafayette were widely known around their small coastal town as the people to talk to if you wanted something fixed - but beyond that, the were well-known around the whole Lancanshire area, even gaining travelers that had come from as far away as Chesire, Stratsford, and York. This little town, north of Liverpool, would barely be a blip on the map. It still had a bailiff, after all, when many more enlightened cities were taking on mayorships, and were aware of the importance of the people in the political arena.

The younger Odinson huffed and turned on his heel, striding out of the darkened depths Anthony preferred since he worked with many light-sensitive chemicals. Anthony did not move, did not even twitch, until he heard the door to the shop thud shut.

“They are getting more insistent.”

Anthony did not even lift his head, merely murmured, “They may become as insistent as they like. The Ripper is retired. His work is no longer needed.”

Henry Pymm, once a world-famous inventor until he displeased the Duke Cross, sat down on the other side of Anthony’s work table. “They will only send more people. Perhaps something small, that would appease them and take the heat and pressure off of you.”

Anthony lost the battle with his nerves and dropped his tools, shoving away from the table. “I swore upon my mother’s grave I would not again create to destroy. I retired here, I built this place, and I will not stand for interlopers intruding upon me. Not here.”

“No one is asking for the Ripper,” Pymm murmured, looking up at Anthony with something unnamed in his expression. Anthony knew he was young, knew he had barely begun needing to run a blade over stubble, knew that he and his were all too unversed in the world’s ways, but that changed nothing.

He had been the Ripper once, a child prodigy at the court, showing off his skills and his mechanics. He had created a robotic creature - it had a proper name when he showed it off at court, so proud and so excited to be recognized for his genius, but he had affectionately called it Dummy - and he had created intricate cog machinery for the Earl Marshal. He had created ingenious weaponry, and armor, and bombs.

He had created death, death that came in the form of shrapnel tearing through the bodies, leaving nothing but sacks of flesh ripped into shreds.

He would not create weapons again, no matter who the Earl Marshal delegated to walk through his doorway. He was done.

In disgust, he pulled off his heavy working gloves and threw them on the table. “I find myself tired.”

Pymm said nothing; merely watched as Anthony snatched up his top hat and affixed his bracers against his forearms, whipped on his top coat and buttoning up the front angrily. As he grabbed his walking cane, Pymm said, quietly and almost sympathetically, “It is not on us to deny the request of our betters. I found that out, too late. You are still young, Viscount.”

“I am Viscount no longer,” Anthony replied viciously. “I have forfeited my family’s title, my family’s taxes, my family’s good name,” here, a sneer worked in his voice, though he kept his back on the elder man who was one of the closest people he could count on as a mentor, “specifically so that I may not have to ever again build a mechanical contraption to usher death upon another human being. And so long as you and Miss Lafayette work within my workshop, Pymm, you will also refrain from such monstrous creations.”

Incensed, Anthony exited the workshop and strode forth, doing his best not to scowl too harshly at children in the street. The tiny town that sat on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a salt-making quarry, was pleasantly quiet for the most part. At least, it was when Anthony normally retired to his tiny house overlooking the rest of the town.

(Relatively tiny, of course. It was not as if Anthony was a penniless lord in a crumbling manor; he created more than enough revenue in his small creations. The rich loved the intricate and delicate machinery and cogs that did such clever tasks such as sort mail, stir tea, project sound or sights, record sound or sights, or even track the cycles of the moon and the passage of days. The poor knew his fixes to their cookware, pipes, and lighting fixtures. He had worked out a favorable contract between him and the bailiff of this and three other small, surrounding towns to create lampposts that would need minimal care.

(He did well for himself, if not as well as he might have, had he remained underneath the Earl Marshal Obadiah Stane.)

Now, though, he was leaving in the late afternoon, in the middle of market time. The streets were full, citizens weaving around like ants scurrying for food. Anthony was shorter than most - he hoped, as he reached his early and mid-twenties, to gain more height, but he knew that was a fool’s hope as now, at the age of nineteen, he was still barely 1.7 meters vertically - and so he threaded his way through the humming throng as best he could. He caught sight of some familiar faces; young Peter and Matthew, and there was Nathaniel Richardson, and the brilliant little Miss Riannon, known as Riri to her friends. He did his best to nod congenially to those who glanced his way, but he was desperately just trying to reach his own estate on the outskirts of town.

“--Parker’s Inn.”

“A real member of the Order?”

Anthony ducked underneath the arm of a man reaching for something from a vendor’s cart and caught other snippets of conversation:

“--beautiful horse. All the young’uns are over there fighting who will curry the beast.”

“Why do you think they’re all the way up here? I heard--”

Anthony finally pushed his way through the crush and on the long, winding path that would lead up the hill to where the modest villa sat on the edge of the beach, looking down at the local salt mine.

He did not know who had come to the inn, but he knew he wanted nothing to do with them.


End file.
